#coupe dispatch x reader

‘You don’t even know what I was going to ask,’ you protest, dramatically draping yourself onto her lap as the two of you lounge on one of the benches outside the taco restaurant. ‘Aren’t you a little curious?’

‘Curiosity is foolishness, if you ask me.’

‘Perfectly describes me, then.’

Coupé snorts, but doesn’t budge; she doesn’t push you off of her lap, though, which is already a sign of progress. ‘I know what you want. You’ve been staring at my wings ever since I helped with Flight School yesterday.’

‘Can’t I admire your flying?’ you ask. ‘Among other things.’

The assassin stares down at you, unimpressed. ‘Yes. But you only stare like that whenever you want something out of it. I am not taking you for a ride, I’m not an Uber driver.’

‘C’monnnn.’ You turn your pleading face towards her, stretching your limbs around her waist (you feel the hilts of several razor-thin knives around it as you do so). ‘I’ve never been able to fly. I just want to see what it looks like at night with all the city lights on.’

Her gaze shifts to something far away at your words. One might mistake her expression for being cold, but you know her well enough by now to recognize it as concern and reluctance to admit fault in her abilities.

‘…I’m not used to carrying people around,’ she says, finally. ‘That aren’t dead, or three feet tall, anyway. I don’t want to drop you.’

‘You won’t,’ you argue. ‘And besides, even if you did, I know you’d catch me.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I do, though,’ you reply immediately, no trace of doubt in your voice, just firm, unwavering confidence. ‘I trust you.’

She grunts, quieter now. You’re close. You give her your patented puppy dog stare, bug-eyed and pouting to the point of being painful. It’s never failed you before.

‘Please?’

It works. Coupé’s face remains impassive for all of three seconds before she sighs.

‘Alright,’ she concedes. ‘But hold on, I’m not responsible if you wriggle out mid-takeoff.’

‘Yes!’ Satisfied at having gotten your way, you grin, rolling off and standing next to her. ‘Knew you’d come around to it.’

‘Mm.’ She stands as well, extending her arms and clutching you to her chest in one smooth motion — caught off guard, your breath hitches, but she has the grace to not comment on it.

Her body tenses. Her wings flex once, twice, but she doesn’t move otherwise for a few seconds. For a brief moment, you wonder to yourself if she’s forgotten how.

‘Coop? You okaaaaaAAAAHHHHHH —‘

And Coupé takes off, wings slicing through the air, you clinging onto her for dear life. You screw your eyes shut instinctively to avoid furthering the lurching feeling you got in your stomach, a rollercoaster times ten; you can’t help but yell as she accelerates further, teeth bared all the way to the gums like a Saturday cartoon. Flying the coop, your brain makes up nonsensically.

There’s a rushing of wind in your ears, and then — quiet, only the blood pounding in your ears and the soft sound of your panting. Slowly cracking your eyes open, you’re left to take in the view.

You are high up in the air, miles away from the concrete and glass buildings. Craning your neck to see what you can of the ground, you can spot familiar landmarks, but they don’t exactly seem real; the sprawling city is a miniature diorama with colored dots of light, the late-night frequenters of Torrance milling about like ants. The breeze, now that it’s not rushing around you, gently ruffles your hair, cold but comforting; faint wisps of clouds surround you, light and insubstantial as cotton candy.

Coupé has got you in a bridal carry, your arms wrapped around her neck. She barely looks winded, despite the herculean task she’d performed of keeping you from sunfishing out of her arms; it is dizzying, at this height, to feel so weightless, but so secure at the same time.

She’s watching you closely, monitoring your reaction; her golden eyes peer out at you from behind the mask. It’s not the most comfortable seat in the world, honestly — her fingers dig themselves a little harder than necessary into you, and might leave marks later — but that hardly matters to you when she’s holding you.

She is spotlighted by the moon; her head and shoulders are silhouetted against its waxy glow, pauldrons and the silver spiked laurels of her mask gleaming against the blue night, black mascara trailing from underneath it.

She reminds you faintly of Artemis, you think, hunting goddess, aligned with the Moon itself. And she’s beautiful in this moment. Possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Your heart flutters in your chest, inelegantly, and you stare at her, mouth open. Coupé notices your obvious staring, but attributes it to exhilaration. ‘Careful or you’ll swallow a bird.’

You blink, snapping your jaw shut with a click. ‘Uh. Can that happen?’

‘Sonar does it all the time,’ she remarks, dryly. ‘Apparently, seagulls are really tough to chew.’

‘Ah.’

‘Well, you got what you wanted,’ she says. ‘Are you happy now?’

‘Oh, this is better than any flight I’ve ever had.’ You clear your throat and bring an unsteady hand to your mouth, affecting the crackly, drawled tone of a flight attendant. ‘Welcome to Coupé Airlines, seatbelts are not provided, but if necessary we have an infinite supply of knives at our disposal —‘

‘They aren’t infinite, and if you even think about removing one I will drop you flat on the concrete.’

‘— noted,’ you finish, sufficiently cowed into normalcy.

Coupé hums a low note, before saying with a straight face, ‘I do have a pack of nuts somewhere, though, if you get hungry. You’re in Economy Plus.’

At that, you laugh, delightedly caught off-guard, and her black lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile.

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence; you stay there like that for a few minutes, drinking your fill of the view, before you begin to feel lightheaded, limbs relaxing. Coupé notices this and tightens her grip.

‘Ready to go down?’ she asks you, and you nod; she gives you a crisp one in return and begins to descend.

You expect her to fly down as she took off (which is to say, supersonically), but where she had taken off as fast as a falcon, she simply begins to float downwards, her wings exerting incredible control as you are slowly lowered down, letting the buildings and billboards creep up tall over you again. She lands soft as a falling feather on the ground, helping you out of her arms.

‘So,’ she says, quietly. ‘Your review?’

You furiously bat your eyelashes at her, sighing loudly in a comical swoon. ‘Oh, Coop, it was absolutely—‘

’Say it was magical and I’ll stick a knife in your throat.’

‘— fantastic,’ you say, and, tentatively, place a hand on her arm again. ‘Thank you. Seriously.’

And at the contact, Coupé’s face softens, golden eyes lidded and molten with an emotion you rarely see from her — fondness, you realize, warmth — and she takes your hand in hers, briefly squeezing it, then lets go. ‘Of course.’

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you feel lightheaded again, and this time you do not have the excuse of being off solid ground to wave it away. If she’ll let you, you’d love to do it again, but not just to see the city — the view above you, you think, was just as wonderful as the view below.

The points of interest can vary. Sometimes, it is for its value, whether that be monetary or in social credit, though she will always ask for money upfront; social credit doesn't pay the bills, especially not now that she's independent. Sometimes, she is intrigued by the method of execution, if it is something she hasn't had the liberty to try out yet. And sometimes it is for the subject matter, because they make for interesting stories to tell to friends — what few friends she does have, these days.

This particular job hits the mark on all three, which makes for a delightful combination of obstacles. It will be very well paid, enough to keep her supported for two months, a month and a half if she splurges on new adamantine blades. The method of execution has been phrased as silent but deadly, a task she accomplishes with ease but one that will be made significantly more challenging due to the number of those present at the venue. And the subject matter — to speak of the venue itself — is an opera house.

A ballet. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, to be precise. Performed in the middle of winter at Los Angeles's grandest arts venue and headlined by her target, who plays the graceful Odette and Odile and has had quite a few unsavory dealings in her past. Are they enough to murder the girl over? She does not dwell on that much.

Not only does the task require her to be efficient, it requires her to blend in as a dancer herself, masquerade as a swan maiden, and then take over the starring role mid-performance. It will be difficult. It will be high-class. It will require immense focus, preparation and training, warmup upon warmup until all the muscles in her ache just as they did when she used to leap grand jétés. Her old pointe shoes, tucked away in a box dusty with age and kept around for nostalgia, are hardly fit for the task; she will have to get new ones, she thinks, and break them in until her toes become as bloody as her hands so often are.

Excellent.

She moves the file to the top of her list. If others are bothered, they are more than welcome to hire another assassin to do the job — she knows they won't. She watches a full recording of the ballet that evening and permits herself an indulgent night’s dinner of drinking and eating, free of restriction. She watches the smiles to herself, thinking ahead for what is in store.

The following morning, she begins to train.

——

It is grueling work, balancing ballet with assassination. It requires precise scheduling like you wouldn’t believe. She is tired more days than not in the months leading up to the kill, but it’s a good kind of tired, a pleasant ache that settles in her bones as she hones both her arabesque and the sharp edges of the blades settled at the top of her wings.

The company is like she remembers it during auditions, cutthroat and vicious with who will and who will not be chosen, praise doled out as equally as criticism. It shouldn’t matter to Janelle anymore, and anyhow she is going to dance the main role if she executes her mission perfectly, but her pride is left hurt by the director’s crude, disdainful eyes as he evaluates her. Nevertheless, she makes the cut, skin lightly sheened with sweat and panting. She's still got it, all right.

The will-be Odette is obnoxious. Forcing herself to remain close but unseen, melting into the shadows and tucking herself in among the other swan maidens, Janelle takes her time as the rehearsals go by to observe her mannerisms: how she might react when caught by surprise, how many of her family members and peers (the latter of which, she notes dryly, there aren’t many) she should look out for. She is petty and vindictive and, though not untalented, incapable of shutting up and listening to the barks of the director, who turns a blind eye to each spat she stirs up. Janelle looks forward to when she will not have to deal with her passive-aggressive remarks of her forgetting the choreography yet again. She notes what the director is saying and practices it until she dreams of it in her sleep, wakes up with her feet already laced in pointe shoes.

On the days in which she is not at rehearsals, she practices in a remote studio she rents for a couple of hours. It is quiet, discreet, and the owner seems to pay no heed to the fact she sometimes comes in with her armor and all, simply handing her the key while staring at his phone.

For the next stretch of time, she lets herself stretch at the ballet barre and stand first position, second, and so on — pliés, fouettés, black leotard smooth and snug against her skin and pointe shoes molded to her feet with hard-won effort. She plays the soundtrack, rehearsing her movements, and adjusts everything to make sure she hits the timing impeccably.

Accuracy has always been a strong suit of hers. She catches glimpses of herself in the mirror, all graceful limbs and dark, lean muscle, and thinks with pride, not bad at all.

A month before the performance, she gets a little too lost in the feeling, blares the music so loudly even the most mournful of the pieces hurts her ears. As she practices her part in the Danse des petits cygnes, knowing she will likely have to make up for the others' lack of accuracy, she does not hear the door click open until she stops mid-pas de chat to see you staring at her, eyes wide and jaw slack with amazement.

Danger rings in her brain. The studio is too brightly lit to disappear into the shadows. With cool efficiency, she springs back, sweeps up her bag and reaches for the reserve knives she keeps inside; you look a weak enough target.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees you startle and blurt, ‘Don’t!’

You sound flustered, not fearful. So she echoes ‘Don’t?’ as neutrally as can manage, looking at you impassively.

It must have come off hostile, because you flinch at the tone of her voice and your hands fly up in surrender. She waits as you stammer apologies, the sound still blaring out of her phone’s speakers. On the stage, the swan maidens would have dropped to the ground by now, useless; you look halfway from wanting to drop and disappear into the lake yourself.

‘Please, don’t stop on my account,’ you manage eventually, the sides of your mouth pitching upwards in a quivery smile. ‘Your dancing was really nice.’

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘But I’ll leave you alone now.’

’Oh, don’t worry about it. I, um — I don’t need it today. Or anymore.' You puff an attempt at a laugh, but it's splintering, and your chin is trembling. 'I just got dismissed from my company, and I…’

That’s all she manages to get out of you, because you cover your face with your hands and you start crying, soft, broken little sobs into your palms as you stand in the doorway, blocking her egress.

Janelle is wholly unused to seeing crying in such a casual context, and is thus wholly unequipped to deal with you. She simply waits as your shoulders quake, tears soaking the sleeves of your jacket. They subside after a few uncomfortable minutes, and you sniffle, digging around in your bag for some tissues; she takes the opportunity to silence her phone, loosening her grip on her bag. If you're a killer, you have a bad way of showing it.

‘Sorry, I’m — sorry. I’ve just had a really bad day. Sorry,’ you say miserably, wiping half-heartedly at your nose, the tracks of tears still visible on your cheeks. ‘Feel free to keep using the room. I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘It’s alright,' Janelle says, because it seems like the appropriate thing to say. And because she is unfamiliar with this situation, unmoored by your crying and buoyed by her flawless technique today, she hears herself ask, ‘…Would you like to talk?’

She half regrets it as soon as she says it. What would she have to contribute to the conversation? But your sniffling stops as your breathing slows to a more even pace, and you look at her with such a grateful expression that it almost hurts.

‘I — I would, actually. Is that okay?' Softer, you mumble, 'I think I really need it right now.’

There is an out, a way to be released from the conversation, but there is so much heart-rending vulnerability in your gaze — a look Janelle thought she'd never describe a girl with outside of her favorite romantasy novels — and the idea that someone would need her for something stuns her out of giving a better response than wordlessly nodding and taking a seat, her back to the mirror.

With one last hasty scrub at your face, you plop down to join her, close to her bag, knives within an arm's reach of you; swiftly, Janelle picks the bag up and tosses it across the floor, hoping you did not see the glint of the blades inside. You give no such indication, letting your legs haphazardly splay out in front of you, the nylon of your tights stretching over your legs and free of weaponry, and now Janelle is certain you're not any danger to her. More a danger to yourself, if anything.

‘They let me go because I wasn’t “up to their standards”, you start disbelievingly, letting your head fall back against the mirror with an audible thunk. ‘And it's not just about technique, even. I just don’t look right, apparently. Can you believe that?’

She doesn’t answer. You barrel on. ‘I can’t. It’s a stupid excuse, it's — it’s just, agh. You know? It just feels so unfair. I work as hard as anyone else on that stage. So what if I'm not gorgeous?'

Janelle does not say anything, and your eyes widen as if you've accidentally insulted her. 'Ah —of course, no offense to you, obviously.’

‘None taken,' Janelle says, matter-of-fact. She hadn't thought you were referring to her, but the implication hidden within your apology is clear. ’It isn't easy.'

‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ A resentful edge tinges your voice now, bitterness to edge out the sweet. ‘I was two days away from pirouetting myself out of the window myself anyway, the director's such an asshole.'

‘I’m sure that would really have made the situation take a turn,' Janelle comments.

The poor attempt at a joke earns her a soft giggle, a much more pleasant sound to your sobbing from earlier. ‘Yeah, I guess it really would, huh?’

'It would.'

Having calmed down, you nod to her bag tossed halfway across the floor. ‘I guess it’s obvious, but I saw you were practicing Swan Lake earlier. Are you in the big production coming up?’

She nods, and you gasp, eyes sparkling — refreshingly, she can detect no envy in your tone, only awe.

‘That’s amazing! Congratulations. I’m sure it must have been a lot of hard work.’

'Yes. Blood, sweat, tears, all of it.’

You nod eagerly. ‘Definitely. I mean, it feels like every day is harder than the last, and I’m not even doing what you’re doing. I’ll be sure to come watch you in it.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Oh, you’ll be lovely,’ you reply immediately.

Janelle's eyebrow raises at that, and you wince, hand coming to rub at the back of your neck. ‘Sorry. I’m still a bit out of it. Not that you’re not lovely, I mean —' You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing tightly. 'I’ll just shut up now.’

She isn’t blind. She knows she cuts a fine figure, aware of the power she holds over others, and she can sense attraction when she sees it. And the way your eyes fix themselves to the floor and you curl slightly further into yourself, holding your breath back, is a clear giveaway of what you're thinking.

She has taken both women and men to bed before, under the influence of drink and dark eyes, and let herself be held afterwards by them on more than one occasion. Even entered partnerships. And — she takes a moment to study your profile while you avert your eyes, look at your embarrassed reflection in the mirror — you do not seem like you would be bad company at all. Your eyes are still red and your voice is a little rough from the crying, yes, but she can be honest with herself, though she doesn't say it.

Her last relationship, with Colm, ended well and amiably, and she does miss the warm company of someone, true. But you're different than Colm, and most others — you're unconnected to the world she knows, filled with danger, and from what you've shown, you have been wearing your heart on your sleeve, instead of keeping it tucked to your chest, obviously latching on to someone willing to give you a modicum of affection. You don't deserve to be swept up in it.

In a word, you seem naive, too good — the Odette to her Odile. And she has a mission to complete.

She lets the silence between you two lengthen, seeing how far it will stretch, as your hands grip your arms tighter, leaving crescent moon grooves in the flesh.

‘I appreciate it,’ she says finally, slicing through the tension. ‘Do you like it?’

Your head snaps up. 'H-huh?'

'Swan Lake.'

'Oh!' The beginning of another smile, wobbly and uncertain, forms on your face. 'It’s my favorite ballet. I mean, the Nutcracker is a close second, I’ve always loved the Sugarplum Fairy, but Swan Lake is just beautiful.’

‘I agree,' Janelle says.

‘Which would you rather be?’ you ask her. ‘Odette or Odile?’

‘Odile,’ she answers without much difficulty. ‘Her routine is my favorite.'

‘Mm.'

Something about your tone intrigues Janelle, prompts her to know more. ‘And you?’

‘Easy. Odile.’ And your smile solidifies, sharpens into a grin and shows off your teeth. ’Sure, she may be evil, but — she does go to the party, after all.’

The joke of your own, and the sudden wittiness of your smile, makes Janelle snort. Delighted, you giggle again, the sound escaping you clear and easy as the last of your earlier troubles finally seems to fade from your mind. She would like to hear it again, if she can.

It is compelling to her, your laughter, your smile, and she finds herself wanting more of it. But she has taken too long, and her next executive is waiting to have his throat cut, so she pushes herself to stand abruptly. Your neck cranes as you look up at her, startled, from the ground.

‘I have to go.’

‘Oh! Okay.’ She notes the way your face falls, but you school it well enough, affecting nonchalance as she gathers her bag from the floor, gives herself one last appraisal in the mirror, and pretends not to notice the way your eyes linger on hers as she turns.

Only when she is at the doorway do you speak again, your voice hopeful. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around? Outside of the performance.’

You won’t. Janelle nods anyway, then leaves, not waiting to see how you respond.

——

The assassination is short work, in the end. She chooses to kill between acts two and three, shortly before Odile’s entrance. It isn’t painless — no death is — but it is quiet as the blade sinks into the dancer’s throat, save for the gurgle of blood, and even that is cleanly taken care of, barely a trace left behind.

She leaves the body in the rafters for others to discover. People will wonder where she is, but they won’t investigate until after the ballet, not with such a high stakes performance on the line, and if she intends to replace the main dancer, well, they can’t interrupt that, can they?

From there, it is even shorter work to fit herself into Odile’s costume (they are of similar sizes, which she is thankful for), fix her gaze in the mirror to steel the last of her nerves, and then push through the confused and panicked whispers of the company to make her entrance.

Now, this, this suits her much better, she thinks, as she twirls around the stage, faster and faster, knowing everyone's eyes are on her. She can practically feel the black swan’s features bursting out of her, like her wings do when she soars through the skies. And, just as she can throw a knife in a perfect arc, she leaps, the orchestra crescendoing, and she finishes victorious.

Rapturous applause erupts from the audience, wrapping around her like the beating of a thousand wings. She wonders for a fleeting moment if you are one of the many applauding, too, but then she shakes the thought off — there is the rest of the ballet to perform.

The lights dim, the curtain closes, and she must be on the move again. As the rest of the company takes their bow, she listens to their dwindling applause as she stows the costume away and melts into the shadows, taking off through the back door while no one is paying her any heed.

Janelle celebrates the job's success with a fast food order. She is licking the remnants of a hamburger off of her hands, relishing a warm, carb-heavy meal, when she hears a familiar voice.

‘Oh — it’s you!’

She turns, and similarly notes oh, it’s you. Because who else could it be?

Silhouetted by the warm, dim lights of the street some fifty feet away, your breath steams in the chilly air as you rub your hands together. Your eyes, wide with recognition, are fixed on hers, as you take in her armor, the wings tucked at her back.

From the way you light up, it is obvious she's recognized you, too, because you windmill an arm, waving, and run up to meet her, nearly tripping over your feet as you do so. She has enough time to fly away, but she remains rooted to the spot.

Closing the distance between you both, you exhale sharply, white cloud escaping your mouth as if it were cigarette smoke. Now that she can see you more clearly, you're looking at her with the same enthusiasm as you had before, though this time there's something new. A noticeable reverence.

‘I saw you performing earlier,’ you challenge, stabbing what could be an accusatory finger at her. It is more adorable than anything. ‘You never told me you were Odette.’

‘Odile, too,’ Janelle replies, confirming her presence before she can deny it.

‘Yeah. Odile, too.’ You suck in a breath, as if trying to hold back your praise — or maybe accuse her further — but it comes rushing out in one breathless sentence. ‘You were amazing. Seriously.’

It feels nice to be appreciated by someone, at least — the praise settles in her nicely, warms her insides against the cold air. ‘Thank you.'

‘What happened to the other ballerina?’ you ask. 'She wasn't at the bows.' Your eyebrows furrow. 'And you weren't either.'

'I don't know,' Janelle states, badly, and your lips press together into a thin line, disbelieving. Your gaze slips to her hands, and to the remnants of the blood caked under her nails.

'You're better off not knowing,' she says at last, and watches as the implication behind the statement hits you, the way your posture stiffens, your elbows pressing to your sides.

She doesn't want to kill you, now, she knows, so she is hoping you will simply not say anything. She would not blame you if you turned tail and ran.

But you are full of surprises, it seems. Your jaw sets, jutting out slightly — it's trembling, if she looks closely, but she gives you credit for trying — and you shift your feet, attempting to cement yourself in place on the ground, the concrete scraping underneath your soles. The light has still not dimmed from your eyes. But you look afraid, nonetheless.

‘…Okay,' you say finally, tentatively brave, testing the words out. 'I won't. I won't ask, then.'

Janelle knows what you're thinking. She takes that as enough confirmation to step forward, dwindling the already small space you've made for yourselves created down to centimeters, feeling the warmth of you as you stare at her, not saying anything; she lets her wings unfold to their fullest extent, and watches as your gaze drifts to the sharpness of the knives that line them, disguised as feathers. She can see the sweat that forms on your brow, the uneven rise and fall of your breast.

‘I'm an assassin,' she states plainly. 'I could kill you.'

Your voice falters, but your gaze stays fixed on hers, silently accepting, or trying to accept. ‘I — I know,' you repeat quietly. 'I saw the knives in your bag the other day.'

So, she thinks, you were more perceptive than she thought after all. ‘And now you know what I’m capable of. Are you going to turn me in?’

’No,’ you mumble. 'I wanted to —'

The words are bitten off in your throat as you bite your lip, suddenly so shy, and your eyes flutter shut as if in silent rehearsal — to beg for your life, perhaps, or for someone else's? But there is a hitch in your breath, and the shiver that rolls through you, one not of cold but of wanting, and Janelle realizes that you're still not afraid. Or if you are, if anything, that hasn't made you want her any less.

The words leave your mouth too fast, too soon to be anything but rehearsed. 'I wanted to ask whether you'd want to go out. With me.'

Oh.

'Like, on a date,' you explain hurriedly as if she hasn't heard, oblivious to the knot that's risen in her throat, the sudden prickle on her skin. 'I mean, you probably already figured that out. I was going to ask you at the theater if I found you —'

‘I’m not someone who you should get involved with,' Janelle interrupts you, harsher than she intends for it to be. 'I’m dangerous.'

'And beautiful.' You don't apologize for the compliment, not like you did the other two times. 'And an amazing dancer.'

That shuts her up, stops her breath like a blade cutting through her windpipe. You don't know what you're saying, what you want to agree to — you don't even know her name. You are too naive and trusting, and you are someone who will have a hard time adjusting to the world she lives in, if indeed you get to experience it at all, and how are you taking this so easily in stride? How, indeed, are you taking it at all?

But Janelle searches your gaze and finds only an edge to your stare, the same undimmed light in your eyes — an Odette unafraid to sacrifice herself for love with Siegfried, with her — and finds, suddenly, that she does not care.

‘There’s a café three blocks from here,’ you murmur, finally. ‘They have brunch specials. Maybe I'll see you there tomorrow?'

It's phrased less as a question and more as an expectation: you know you will. Janelle nods. It's all that she can give, but it contains a promise she knows she'll keep.

It's all that you need. A smile blooms on your face, an echo of the one you'd worn before — smaller, less teeth, but nonetheless delighted. 'Okay.'

Gently, you step back from her, feet scraping on concrete once again as you turn on your heel. You walk away without checking to see if she is watching you. Your stride is purposeful; still a little clumsy, but you plant one foot in front of the other, gradually getting further away from her.

Janelle does not melt into shadow, or take off into the air. She simply stares at the dwindling speck of you for a long, long time, until you vanish from sight entirely, until you melt away again into the lights of the city, like a swan maiden returning to the lake.